Dealing with Zealots
by Ferrum56
Summary: Holy wars in the name of Daedric Princes and holy wars in the name of the Nine Divines stem from the same willful ignorance and insanity. The Champion of Cyrodiil can't afford to let zealots of either faction take over the Empire.
1. Crumbling

**Disclaimer: I don't own _TES IV: Oblivion_, and I don't make any money from these writings.**

Thirty-five years ago, the Eternal Champion overthrew Jagar Tharn and restored Emperor Uriel to the throne. A generation later, another hero pacified the restive Daggerfall region with The Warp in the West. Some years ago, the Nerevarine appeared and tore through Morrowind, leaving a trail of dead cliff racers and Tribunal gods.

As I poured through the texts detailing their histories, I noticed a trend of prisoners becoming heroes of the Empire. The Eternal Champion was the last man to escape from the Imperial Prison before the rash of jailbreaks in 3E 433, Daggerfall's hero had served time in Bruma for various misdemeanors, and the Nerevarine was sentenced to transportation to Vvardenfell. That trend continued with me, when Emperor Uriel and his Blades busted my sorry ass out of the pen two years ago. I'm now the Champion of Cyrodiil, but being a hero of a crumbling empire is hardly worth mentioning.

Cyrodiil is unable to even protect itself because of the political ambitions of its worthless nobility, as I learned while trying to reinforce Bruma. Chancellor Ocato couldn't spare a single legionnaire for the city's defense, as the bulk of the military was tied down in the other provinces. We would have had to make do with what we had: a sorry lot of militia with worn weapons and pathetic armor.

Unwilling to accept those odds, I turned to the other cities. The counts and countesses at the edges of Cyrodiil are fetchers, I'll say that much. The corrupt and egotistical Indaryses of Cheydinhal, the hedonistic Terentiuses of Bravil, the racist Caros of Leyawiin—I wouldn't trust these people to run a shop, much less rule over others. At least they spared troops for the cause, unlike a certain Altmer battlemage in the Imperial City.

I knew a few green troops wouldn't be enough, so I sent orders to the Priory of the Nine and to Battlehorn to reinforce the town militia holding Bruma's walls. Since that _still_ wasn't enough, I took a chance and snuck a few Daedra into Nirn through Frostcrag Spire to act as a failsafe. I am never _ever_ asking Staada or Dylora for a favor again. It just isn't worth it.

Not only can't Cyrodiil defend its own territory, it's a major conduit for drugs heading into the other provinces. A bottle of skooma costing five hundred drakes in Vvardenfell can be purchased in Bravil for seventy-five septims. Before its destruction, the Blackwood Company used Hist Sap from a smuggled tree. Flowers from the plant that produces the fibers for rope are often used for legitimate purposes, but there's been a spike of abuse lately.

Recently, two lethal drugs have appeared on the streets: felldew and greenmote. What were once ceremonial drugs of Daedric worshipers have become commonplace on the streets, and unless the authorities take action quickly, the damage will have been done. These are drugs that make skooma look like plain sugar in comparison.

I was addicted to felldew once, during a mission for Thadon of Mania. First comes the euphoric high, when you feel invincible. Then the effects wear off, and you're left with a sense of emptiness. That is _heaven_ compared to what happens as you enter the five stages of withdrawal.

It begins with a nervous compulsion to get more felldew as your body itches and aches, followed shortly by pain unlike any other you will ever feel. You will barely be able to think, fight, or move as you progress through wounding stage. Should you survive that long, you move into the crippling withdrawal phase, and believe me, you won't be doing any other kind of moving. Once you finally hit rock bottom with the ruinous stage, start praying to whatever deity you believe in to take your soul, because you'll be an unlucky walking corpse by then.

Greenmote's cleaner: just do three hits and you'll be dead. There's no withdrawal, no addiction; only rapture. One out six overdoses ends with a chest-busting heart explosion, but death is a certainty. I've made a suggestion to the bureaucrats of the Imperial City of turning it into a more humane execution method for captured bandits and their gangs.

Bandits? Marauders? Gangs? Plenty of those in the Imperial Province, I'm afraid. Kill ten, and ten other criminals will replace the fallen within three days. It's gotten so bad, Rockmilk Cave has become the site of an endless gang war between the Black Bow Bandits and marauders. Don't try to raid the ruins dotting the countryside, either; any abandoned fortress is bound to be a stronghold for outlaws _or worse_.

How much worse? I don't know. Traven's prohibition of necromancy created a schism within the Mages Guild, and even after Mannimarco's defeat, there are still pockets of resistance here and there. Same deal with conjurers, who continue to operate in the ruins. Vampires occupy quite a few caves and abandoned forts if they're not masquerading as normal citizens. Hackdirt's full of nutcases and monsters, and a powerful Storm Atronach has laid claim to Sandstone Cavern.

At least they're not as numerous as goblins. The goblins of Cyrodiil have united and put a price on my head after I stole just about every totem staff and placed them in Battlehorn Castle. The sieges were fetchin' _epic_! It's too bad I had to stash the staves in the Shivering Isles after Countess Valga threatened to hit me with a death warrant.

I won't elaborate on Cyrodiil's problems of wealth, taxes, and fines, but I will say this: There is no excuse for the sort of corruption I saw in Ulrich Leland of Cheydinhal or Audens Avidius of the Imperial City. Neither can there be any redemption after taxing society's poorest, as Hieronymus Lex did with the Waterfront residents. They are supposed to be guardians of the people, not extortionists.

Dagon's invasion of Cyrodiil scarred the land, and Umaril's sneak attacks killed a few priests and nuns. As insane as this will sound, the physical damage caused by those two was minor. Kvatch will be rebuilt. The chapels have been repaired. But the hearts and minds of the Cyrodiil's citizens will take much longer to heal.

Because of the invasions, Cyrodiil has grown much more intolerant. There was the case of an entire family of Azura worshipers found butchered just outside Cheydinhal. Meridia, who sheltered Umaril, had some of hers lynched near Skingrad. Except for Jyggalag, the other Daedric princes all have similar tales.

The holier-than-thou crusaders causing all of this are no less evil than the Mythic Dawn, but because they claim to worship the Nine Divines, the government and the populace turn a blind eye to their crimes.

I will not. There is little difference between a zealot of the Daedra and a fanatic of the Aedra. They harm others for power and pleasure, yet mask their vile intentions behind the veil of piety.

I'm just as despicable as those religious s'wits, but at least I'm willing to take responsibility for my actions. I have murdered, stolen, lied, and even betrayed, but I have never used faith as an excuse. I commit crimes for personal benefit, plain and simple.

At the moment, they're right outside Frostcrag Spire and are armed to the teeth. I think they want to scrap. Pity I'll just give them the Finger and be done with it.


	2. Taking Action

The main problem with using Finger of the Mountain at full power is that the magicka requirements are ungodly high. I've often fortified my magicka to dangerous levels and found myself just under the minimum needed to cast it.

Enter the Welkynd Stone. These glowing Ayleid rocks were irreplaceable. "Were," not "are," because Meridia still knows how to make them and the more expensive Varlas. Her Aurorans certainly carry a lot of them whenever I raid Garlas Malatar.

The trick to casting any powerful spell without sufficient magicka reserves is to strap one of those mothers to your back, siphon power directly from the rock, and bleed off the energy by casting like there's no tomorrow. Oh, and pray your ass is still around when you're done. According to Hermes, there's a ten percent chance of a "catastrophic failure." And I care…why? What does that bookworm know, anyway?

The bastards down there have no idea what I'm up to. I extend my right arm parallel to the ground with my palm facing down, giving them an Imperial salute. I don't know if any of them are fellow honorably discharged Legion vets, but if any are, I pray to the Nine that they die well.

I slowly clench my right hand into a fist, giving them a rough countdown until their doom. It's my last warning to them before I start blasting, and once I hit them a rude gesture, it'll be too late.

Before I launch a powerful lightning bolt at the main cluster, I point my middle finger at my victims and prepare to launch. There's no going back now. I'm not dying because of a damned magicka overcharge.

Action begins with a massive energy blast annihilating most of the enemy. They intuitively scatter, proving that while they may be too stupid to live, they would pass the Legion's minimum intelligence requirements for line grunts.

To my shame, I didn't expect them to rally immediately. Either they'd planned this, or they belong to one of those suicide cults. Bad news for me in either case.

A squad of archers attempting to organize a volley meets my follow-up Finger of the Mountain. I'm still gagging on the ozone when a battering ram impacts against the Spire's doors in a vain breaching effort. Four more fanatics must want to die.

They were dumb enough to wear Daedric armor. Several shots of Enemies Explode later, the ebony and metal protection suits become self-contained ovens as the wearers burn alive. Only the regular infantry are left, and they're making a run for it.

They break so easily, the little cowards. Isn't being missing from the pile of dead heroes supposed to be shameful to these young'uns? Times sure have changed. I should let them go, because there _used to be_ no worse dishonor in combat than not standing and taking it like soldiers, but I won't.

Even if the coalition of Aedra and Daedra hadn't hired me to take on these extremists, I love seeing stuff blow up. It's even sweeter when I don't have to clean up. I use the rest of the Welkynd's charge to signal one of the gods, and as I feel the all-too-familiar chilling and electrifying sterilization of the air, I realize exactly what he's planning.

It's a field clearing tactic used by Order at the end of the Greymarch. If I hadn't worn every magicka shield I had that day, I'd be a pile of ashes in the courtyard of the Madhouse today. Thankfully, Order stands with me this time.

I do what any sensible soldier would do: take cover under the biggest damn rock I can find. In my case, this means legging it to the Spire's underground vault. I barely have time to activate the teleporter before Ol' Jyggy's beam sanitizes the battlefield.

All shall crumble before Jyggalag indeed. Good thing the Spire's built to withstand a Daedric prince's attacks.

* * *

Damn Jyggalag. Why couldn't he leave a single piece of their armor intact? Absolutely _nothing_ is salvageable!

I'm being greedy, I suppose. In my travels, I have never once paid for my equipment. How could I, when a good steel sword costs more than what most people earn in a month? In the old days, I made do with looted goblin and undead equipment. What I didn't want, I sold to the mills as scrap. Apparently, so did these folks; otherwise, they wouldn't be wearing the finest armor in existence.

It's true that courage and heroism carried us through the Oblivion Crisis, but behind those virtues were the instinct to survive and the desire to prosper. When the Crisis escalated after I swiped the _Mysterium Xarxes_, I went around Cyrodiil closing every Oblivion Gate I could find. I tallied sixty gates before the end, but I wasn't the only out there swiping Sigil Stones. Of the hundred or so gates opened by Dagon and the Mythic Dawn, no less than thirty were shut by other adventurers before I could reach them.

Bands of broke and desperate beggars often walked into the Deadlands with nothing but clubs and ran out chasing Daedra for their goods. I once came upon a young Bosmer named Gooey who had attacked three heavily-armed Xivilai with his bare hands—and won!

This must sound crazy, but I swear it isn't: Hunger and poverty are excellent motivators. Daedra carry expensive equipment, and the risk of being flattened by a Daedric war hammer is little compared to the possibility of being set for life (or never going hungry again). Each Dremora Valkynaz carries over ten thousand septims in equipment, and that's not including the weapons, gems, scrolls, and other valuables.

I don't need what little money this salvaging job might net me, but I'll admit that I'm a bit of a kleptomaniac and a packrat. Deepscorn Hollow down in Topal Bay used to be a vampiric shrine to Sithis. Dunbarrow Cove is the resting place of the dread pirate, Captain Torradan ap Dugal. These vile lairs used to be hideouts for criminal scum. Today, they—well, they still shelter criminals, but—are monuments to greed.

The armor's a total loss, but the loot bags are intact. Figures that the indestructible little canvas and hemp sacks of holding would survive the Smite of Order. Let's see…soul gems, some gold, a few prayer books, some moonshine, and a bunch of crystallized biscuits—hardtack, looks like. Nothing useful. Oh, there _is_ a receipt from the new liquor wholesaler from the Imperial City, but those people are loyal only to money.

Wait, crystallized hardtack? Those worm castles are still being issued?

* * *

During the defense of Bruma, I had two platoons of Daedra standing by for deployment to the front lines if Martin's plan got shot to Oblivion. But how were they to get to the front in time? A foot march was obviously out of the question.

The answer came to me when I remembered Frostcrag Spire's teleporters. The pads my distant cousin installed let anyone to warp to places such as Anvil and Leyawiin in a jiffy. Just because they _weren't_ meant to be rapid deployment mechanisms for Daedra doesn't mean they _can't_ be used like that. If we'd needed their help, Staada and Dylora's forces were to warp to the ruins of the Mages Guild and hold the town while the civilians evacuated.

I have no idea which portal I should use. Should I hop over to Leyawiin to do a little border patrolling with Mazoga and the Knights of the White Stallion? Would it be better to warp to Anvil and fight my way through Colovia? Do I dare to take on the Orums in Cheydinhal? Or should I start in Bruma, the Little Skyrim of Cyrodiil?

Forget it. It would be faster and easier to check in with my informants in the Imperial City, including the Arena's newest Champion. Arcane University it is.


	3. First Recruits

As I materialized in my quarters in the Arcane University, I reflected on the skirmish up north. Those thugs were better trained than the average zealot, and they knew enough to use sacks of holding to transport their heavy equipment. It's simple: Just take some of those bottomless bags, fill them with goods, and cast a strong, permanent Feather spell on each one. Major space savers, unless someone forgets to mark them.

I thought the bags looked familiar, and now I realize why. The telltale materials, the magicka signatures…any quartermaster worth a damn would know they're an obsolete Black Marsh pattern. The Legion phased it out shortly before I retired. These sacks were marked for future destruction, which should've been…right around now, actually. Damned red tape delays everything.

What concerns me is how they knew to steal them. Unless security at our supply caches has gotten tighter since I left, robbing the Legion is one of the easiest jobs on Nirn. It's how I fenced—never mind. Since the Legion phases out equipment, rather than just replacing it, the thieves could've obtained the newer stuff just as easily.

So why didn't they?

* * *

Raising an army is hard enough for the government. It's worse for private individuals. For respected public figures, it's next to impossible.

I can't trust the upper echelons of the guilds I belong to. Not only do I question their loyalty, I expect them to demand to be placed in leadership positions. Cyrodiil is becoming increasingly polarized, and the damage a spy for either side could do is too great. A mistake in recruiting could end up plunging us all into a major civil war.

The cheapest option is to hire mercenaries—lots of mercenaries. Not exactly an appealing option; the difference between a mercenary and a war criminal is the difference between Morndas and Tirdas. If nothing else, those mass murderers of the Blackwood Company proved that.

When you lead several legal, highly regulated "mercenary" firms called guilds, though, recruit from your lower ranks in exchange for favors. Gee, ain't that _bribery_?

It is, and it isn't. When you get to the core of it, the only differences between an illegal bribe and a legal exchange of goods and services are the subjective opinions attached to either. Sometimes, you wander into a gray area, like I did with my best apprentices.

I'd expected them to ask for gold or Ayleid stones, but they apparently have brains. They want a second-generation enchanted chest, the kind that has just been cleared for production. The kind able to make ten copies of _any_ object, unlike the one I have up in my quarters. The kind with a high potential for abuse.

"Deal," I said, "but remember, each of you is still bound by Mages Guild regulations. Abuse them, and your chest is forfeit. No counterfeiting septims, hear?"

"Yes, Arch-Mage," their Orc leader replied with a toothy, mischievous grin. "No duping _septims_."

"Or drakes, gold, or any other slang term you may invent for the Imperial coin," I continued. "Seriously, don't do it, kids. This new currency's just gold-plated copper. It only has value because the Elder Council says it does."

"Damn the money," interrupted the Khajiit lieutenant. "This one wants rum!"

The chorus of support he received confirmed my suspicions, not that anyone with half a brain wouldn't have seen it coming. They want booze…lots of booze.

Not bad for the University's worst party animals. I always knew there was a reason I chose them as my apprentices. If they ever flunk out, at least they'd make good negotiators and merchants.

* * *

As much as I want to check in with my Thieves Guild buddies today, I have business to attend to first. I have to meet the Arena's rising star before I can head down to the Waterfront. It's been a long time since I've been there, and for good reason.

No, not that one. My fan moved on long ago. Said he no longer feared (or owed, can't remember which) his loan sharks because of me.

I avoid this place because it was here that I murdered a hero of the Empire in full view of thousands of cheering witnesses. To so many others, Agronak gro-Malog was just another gladiator, a bloody entertainer. To the other fighters, from the lowliest Pit Dog to the Yellow Team's Champion, he was the Gray Prince, a (then-) living legend and an unstoppable swordsman.

Until I traveled to Crowhaven and retrieved proof of his heritage, that was. Agronak was the son of a noble, after all, but…suffice it to say, during our match, he stood and begged me to kill him. To date, his is one of the few murders to haunt me, maybe because that wannabe-Breton fetcher tried to recruit me into the D—

But I digress. As I was saying, I need to find the Arena prodigy. Not only is he one of my most reliable informants, he's the best warrior this side of the Nerevarine. He shouldn't be too hard to spot; I know of no other Bosmer who dyes his hair with blond streaks. Yes, he should be quite conspicuous…except he spends most of the time wearing camouflage. Good thing Invisibility- and Chameleon-type spells are useless against Detect Life.

Oh, that's why I couldn't find him; he was sneaking up on me!

Before I could greet him, though, he motioned for me to keep my mouth shut and follow him away from the Arena.

Once we reached the Market District, he removed his necklace, canceling the enchantment. "Sorry for the trouble," he apologized, "but I've been hiding from my 'adoring' fans all week."

I chuckled humorlessly. "Welcome to my world, boy."

"You didn't come here just to chat, did you?" How perceptive of him. "What do you want, Grand Champion? And make it quick, okay? I got a match against a con in an hour."

"You know all those 'defenders of the faith' causing trouble around Cyrodiil?" I asked. "I'm raising an army to fight them. I expect constant partisan attacks wherever and whenever we march, bad weather throughout the campaign, and the citizens to forget our sacrifices afterwards."

"You? A commander?" Gooey thought for a moment, then burst into laughter. "You, the big damned hero, leading mercenary lowlifes! Gods, the world has gone completely insane! Is Sheogorath coming over for a visit?"

Probably. Who knows?

I shrugged. "I'm sure the Madgod's busy hanging fools with their own entrails. Look, Gooey, you were good at spotting Dawn sleeper agents two years ago. We wiped the floor with those 'mote lords in Bravil last month. Now I'm asking you to fight some Aedra-heads. You in?"

He stopped laughing. "I'm in. Matter of fact, I'll fight for free."

* * *

The rest of the day was uneventful. I did a little shopping on my way out of the Market District, but I didn't stop in the Elven Gardens or the Talos Plaza. Some of the new Thieves Guild safe houses, like the former Umbacano Manor, are there, but there's not much else worth mentioning.

The Temple District is another story. Here was where the Oblivion Crisis ended, along with the last emperor's life. I keep wondering if I should've saved Martin during the final battle. _Should_, mind you, not _could_. I was carrying Wabbajack that day, and I could have easily stopped Dagon with one shot. I _chose_ not to.

One hit from Wabbajack, and Mehrunes Dagon would have been transformed into something easier to stop, like a Xivilai or a sheep. A few pokes of a sword could have banished the Daedric prince back to waters of Oblivion. Tamriel might still have an emperor today.

And Cyrodiil would be even worse off than it is.

Here is the truth: Had Martin survived, and assuming lighting the Dragonfires would have closed the Oblivion Gates, we would have experienced up to half a century of relative peace before finding ourselves out of Septims. The choice, then, was either to let him live to slightly prolong the decaying reign of the Septims, or sacrifice him to close the permanently close the portals to the Deadlands.

"Innocents die so Tamriel may survive," as Captain Scaeva taught us in the Marsh. Admittedly, it doesn't absolve me of my guilt, but at the time, it made it that much easier to let Martin die. A short reign of the priest-emperor before a final Daedric victory over Tamriel, or a long period of chaos as the nobles of the Empire kill each other over the scraps…hmm, both paths lead to doom. But honestly, does the non-Daedric option look so different from the bad old days? We're _used_ to this form of doom, probably because we have so many incompetent bastards in charge.

In fact, I'll argue that we were doomed even _before_ Emperor Uriel and his boys were assassinated. None of the legitimate heirs had children, and once they were dead, only their sickly old father remained. An ailing emperor, three aging, childless (and dead) sons, and a declining state. Not exactly good signs, are they? If Old Man Uriel hadn't been such a womanizer as a young man, time would have done the Mythic Dawn's job for them…eventually.

And Martin? He was _fifty_ when I met him, only three years younger than Prince Ebel. Assuming all that hash he did as a foolish young Sanguine worshiper hadn't left him sterile, who would have been a suitable mate for him?

Mate. Such an ugly word, but far more accurate than any other. An often overlooked aspect of courtship among the upper classes is that marriage is merely a contract, often forced upon the individuals by more powerful members within their social groups. Money, power, prestige, honor—these are the reasons why people marry, and the more important the person, the more delicate the circumstances surrounding…well, damn near any public action, but especially a marriage. Face it: We're not too different from the livestock we breed.

In Martin's case, we—Baurus, Jauffre, and I, that is—would have needed to find a noblewoman who could stand a penniless priest of Akatosh. There aren't too many of those, and only a handful among them are Imperial. Rarer still are those without family histories of genetic diseases—all that inbreeding couldn't have been good for the bloodlines. One woman on our list qualified: Countess Carvain of Bruma, who explicitly refused. She prefers life as a relic collector and sole ruler of her little town. Figures.

Most women would have killed for a chance to become an empress or a concubine to Martin, and I'm sure the Lythandas painting didn't help matters. Not Narina. As tempting as power and fame may have been, the pulls of perfectionism and education were stronger for her. That girl has a very Akaviri mindset.

Damn tangents. I must be going senile. Or is it demented? What was I supposed to talk about—oh, right, why I let Martin get himself killed. Isn't it obvious? The Empire today is useful as a trade regulator—and nothing else. Martin as emperor would've been a long-term disaster so bad, it would've been a _victory_ for Dagon. Dagon's defeat is his victory—how insane is that?

It doesn't matter. No one shall ever learn the truth behind the last Septim's demise, that one of his closest friends cast him to the Daedra over political beliefs.

As I walked around the Temple of the One and through the tunnel to the Waterfront, I noted the repair job undertaken by the citizens—with government approval, of course. We have no emperor, Tamriel is going to Oblivion, and the Mote Road has opened, but the people—the average citizens—remain. It is one of life's constants.

The people endure.


	4. Hail to Incompetence

Today's Black Horse Courier is remarkably unexciting. Imperial officials have decided to plant eucalypts in the Black Marsh to drain the swamps. Fifty or so corpses of opium smugglers have been unearthed so far in a mass grave in the Colovian Highlands. The Cheydinhal City Watch has arrested a trio of Aedric fundamentalists plotting to kill a recent immigrant from Vvardenfell. One week remains until the thirty-sixth anniversary Imperial Simulacrum's end. The Nerevarine has returned. All in all, a slow news day.

Item one on my to-do list is paying an Altmer escort for her services. I know someone of my reputation has no business associating with a lady of lesser virtue, but I just can't resist. Like it or not, Arquen has made my life so much more bearable. She's such a talented Speaker.

Item two is sending a letter to Athon. I don't approve of the marauders he hired last time, but even mercenaries with nothing to offer can still give their lives. That's all mercenaries are good for, in any case.

Item three…well, I haven't gotten that far. My wrist hurts from writing the last entry. It's been a while since I've written anything by hand, thanks to the Aedric recording stone made to help me write the next Elder Scroll. Why I forgot it up north, I don't know. Maybe because it looks like an ordinary soul gem.

I'll leave off here. It's time for a Thieves Guild meeting at the usual place.

* * *

The meeting was a bust. No one has found out a damned thing about the lynch mobs and warbands running around Cyrodiil. This is starting to look a lot like one of those leaderless resistance campaigns so loved by the antigovernment types.

Nocturnal's cowl is lying on my bed. I returned it to her last year, but for this job, she's granted me permission to use it. I won't: For all intents and purposes, the Gray Fox died at the hands of Corvus Umbranox.

What kind of silly nickname is "Gray Fox," anyway? That's just asking for trouble. Foxes are caught and killed all the time. I'd hate to have the Foxhounds after my head again. Lex's neighborhood watch program has shut down most Thieves Guild operations in Anvil. I barely got away last time.

A letter from down south mentioned that a few rookie Pickpockets were arrested in Bravil. Idiots. I'll bail them out, but only to keep their fool mouths shut. Snitches endanger operational security, and these operatives helped Mazoga and Gooey fight the Skooma War a few months back. Or was that the Greenmote War? I keep getting these drug wars mixed up.

I'll need to send a few hundred septims to S'Krivva. That's a small fortune for most commoners, but any alchemist with half a brain can make that much in minutes. I already have a drug lab set up in Frostcrag Spire.

And I'm all the way down here in the Imperial City. Damn it. Guess I'll have to do this the old fashioned way.

* * *

I learned a recipe for a basic Restore Fatigue-class potion early in my career in the Legion. Simply take a little—and I must stress _little_—parched corn (or wheat or oats) and grind it into fine bits, but make damn sure to stop before the stuff becomes flour. Add cold water, preferably potable quality.

A bit of trivia: In certain circles, it isn't a potion. It's used as the primary food of illegals crossing into Cyrodiil from Elsweyr and the Black Marsh. Hunters often carry it as emergency rations. Elite units in the Legion frequently requisition it, especially when they plan to go deep into the boonies.

Cleanup is hell, though. Lots of fine dust particles in a poorly ventilated shack is hardly a good combination. Still, as I tell my students, alchemy is a dirty job, but it beats manual labor. Speaking of labor…I need to get out and take a break. The air's seriously affecting me.

* * *

Those _bastards_! I do not appreciate almost being cut to pieces when I'm washing my eyes. Why can't they understand that?

I was ambushed quite a few times during the Oblivion Crisis. Audens Avidius ambushed Gooey and me at the then-active Oblivion Gate southeast of the city. Three guesses how that went. A few days later, a conjurer who'd been tracking me since Vvardenfell caught up to us outside the Tiber Septim Hotel—and promptly got his head bashed in with his own spell tome. I don't remember the exact date, but there was also a Mythic Dawn assassination team somewhere in there.

Come to think of it, that fetcher LaChance woke me up after I'd finally fallen asleep after eight days of agonizing over Agronak's death. LaChance got his, but I regret not being there to rip his silver tongue out myself.

There were a lot of other surprise attacks, but I'd rather not mention them here. Ink and parchment are expensive, and I'd only have to transfer these records to a more appropriate medium when I have a chance. Why waste extra money and effort for a temporary record?

Anyway, I took care of my attacker. The punk was decked out in ebony armor and carrying a glass longsword. I was wearing some old, loose fitting robes and armed with a piece of firewood. An uneven match, to say the least.

So how did I beat him? I blocked his swing with the wood, which got his weapon stuck. When he tried to free his blade, I knocked him to the ground with a contact range paralysis spell. Then, after removing the sword, I used the wood to club him to death. A lesson, folks: Axes and other blunt weapons may not be as flashy as swords, but unenchanted heavy armor doesn't shield very well against a little thing we call "blunt force trauma."

I don't like this. Sending someone to kill me when there is no way in hell they should know I'm even in town yet means I'm compromised. If they didn't know I was coming to the Imperial City—and I hope they didn't, because I chose to teleport to the Arcane University more or less on a moment's notice—they might have a lot of agents around here. If they don't, then I hope he was the only one, because his death is going to bring their wrath down on my ass.

Another possibility is that Gooey or my students are working for the enemy, but that doesn't make sense. Gooey is a Daedra worshiper, and my apprentices are devout followers of a non-Aedric entity—alcohol. No, I don't think I've been betrayed.

* * *

Well, today's been a waste. I went to the one of the best intelligence services in Tamriel and walked out empty-handed. I brewed a few potions to raise bail money to get some dumbasses out of the pen and ended up looting a full suit of ebony armor instead. Why do I even bother?

First thing tomorrow, I'm going to the Shivering Isles and getting some _competent_ soldiers. I don't like dealing with Haskill or the new duchesses, but it looks like I'll just have to suck it up.

As for now…it's late, my wrist is killing me, I've been awake for two days straight, and I've more or less wasted three sheets of parchment. Time for some shut-eye.


	5. Changes of Command

My definition of a competent soldier is a professional who follows orders and knows how to adapt when needed. Even better are the ones who don't fear death. The only people I can think of who are like that, besides Gooey and the Nerevarine, are two of the most insane women I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Staada and Dylora. I keep having to deal with those two, no matter how much I try not to. Promoting them in exchange for defending Bruma was a costly decision, one that nearly triggered a revolution in New Sheoth. The citizens of the Isles will tolerate a lot, but a military dictatorship? Hell no!

Staada was the old Sheogorath's favorite Aureal and one of the few allowed to wear His signet ring. She was stationed on an island west of Dagon Fel during the Blight as a reward for her millennia of service to Him. It was supposed to be an extended leave of sorts, which abruptly ended when the Nerevarine landed and sent her back to Oblivion in Azura's name.

Not as much to say about Dylora. From what the Mazken have told me, she was attached to Dagon's forces in the Battlespire operation. Other than that, her service record is mostly unspectacular. My predecessor used the Mazken almost exclusively as a home guard, and other than Cylarne or the palace informally known as the Madhouse, commendations were rare. It was just as well; their armor is next to useless.

I didn't know it at the time, but promoting Daedric soldiers to rule over the Shivering Isles is taboo. Because they can't be killed permanently, there is no hope of performing the Rituals of Accession to remove unpopular rulers. They don't follow the customs of the people, either, and even the insane frown upon outsiders.

It probably goes without saying that I'm not particularly welcome in Bliss or Crucible these days. Until the rebels are crushed, I'm not passing through the gates, no siree. The damned heretics and zealots before the Greymarch were bad enough. Rebels? Well, just because I stood against Jyggalag and lived doesn't mean I can fight all of them at the same time. This is the realm of madness, not stupidity.

There's only one way I can send messages to the duchesses, and that's through messengers. Here goes nothing…

* * *

A dozen squads, each with an attached Daedric advisor, filtered through the gates of Passwall hours later. These troops were the Isles' auxiliaries, the forces established to fend off attacks on the Isles' towns. Most were Nord men who'd immigrated after the Greymarch, seeking Sovngarde or fortune. I understand how the battles between Aureals and Mazken might be fun to watch—I've even considered earmarking funds to build a coliseum outside New Sheoth for just that purpose—but those men enjoy watching Daedric beatdowns a little too much for some strange reason. What appeal could there possibly be in watching half-nak—never mind.

Behind them came the commanders and their bodyguards. I was somewhat surprised to see the duchesses; if I'd been in their place, I would've sent Adeo and Issmi to lead instead. Good to know they're taking this seriously, unlike a certain Orc and his crew in the Imperial City.

"My lips to your ears and all that," I addressed the gathering. "Listen up: We're headed for Cyrodiil. Now, thanks to Lord Dagon's recent failed invasion, the good folks are likely to soil trou and run. The bad folks, and believe me, there are a damned lot of them these days, will be after your goods. You better kill them or you die."

"At the same time," I reminded them, "you are _not_ to destroy everything you see. You—_we_—are the Army of Madness, not Dagon's band of nuts, not a bunch of thugs, and definitely not the Blackwood Company. We do not need to end up candidates for _damnatio memoriae_."

_Damnatio memoriae_. Damnation of memory. It's a rare punishment these days, but one still carried out for certain offenses. The Eternal Champion, Josian Kaid, Vatasha Trenelle, the hero of the Daggerfall—the towns of Hackdirt and Sutch, even—were condemned to this fate. It seems that the true reward for heroism in the line of service to the Empire is the same as the punishment for treason against it: to have your deeds wiped from history. Considering how so many of our heroes began as criminals, I can understand the Empire's reasoning, but I still think the side effect of erasing lessons capable of saving others in the future isn't worth it.

_That_ is why I write these scrolls. I don't care how I'll be remembered by future generations, or even if I'll be remembered at all, but I won't let the Fourth Era be our last. I have seen the price of failure, and it ain't good.

"See you on the other side," I finished, not bothering to ask questions or wait for a response. With that, I headed for the portal and Nirn.

* * *

As I write this, my army is massing on the east bank of the Niben. I'm sitting in the relative comfort of Frostcrag, taste-testing my bloodgrass tea and waiting for my vault guardians to bring me my recording stone. Tea's damned bitter and salty, no matter how much honey I add to it.

I shudder at the thought of the world can expect to hear if we should let Cyrodiil fall to the depravations of fanaticism. _For the Emperor_. _My life for the Brotherhood_. _Blood for Dagon, skulls for Malacath. Burn, purge, clean._ Willfully blind madmen, all of them, even worse than Olin and Mede.

I've come to the conclusion that I should turn over command to someone else. Fighting alone is easy; the only rules are to survive and kick ass. Fighting in a group requires more brainpower than I'm capable of, and ain't no amount of intelligence fortifying will change that. If I were to lead my army, I'd have the blood of dozens on my hands, and it would all be for nothing. Unless it's all mercenary or pirate blood, I don't want that to happen.

Part of being a good leader is knowing your own limits. I have little command experience; in the Legion, I stayed in the back most of the time. The only times I remember being deployed to the front were when our troops needed emergency resupply and when we needed extra forces for the anti-Shadowscale operations every Second Seed, and even then, I commanded nine or ten others at most. I never made it past sergeant and earned little glory except from the units I supplied, but at least I'm still breathing.

Let the lackeys do the work, I say. I'm better in a support role, and I can't afford to reveal our secret weapons yet.


	6. Unexpected Guests

There are Lythandases hanging on one of the walls of Frostcrag, and no, I don't mean I nailed a family of Dunmer to them… this time. They're divine works commemorating the Oblivion Crisis and associated troubles, reminders of what I've been trying to stop. They're also fakes, since _I_ borrowed the brush and painted them myself. Technically, _all_ of Rythe's works are also fakes—the Brush of Truepaint is doing most of the work—and the true painter is Dibella.

Yeah… I think we're better off pretending Rythe is a talented painter. Who knows what might happen if it became known that one of the Nine Divines (or her hair) painted all those works?

Anyway, there are pieces depicting the major events of the Oblivion Crisis, Umaril's Uprising, the Greymarch, and so on and so forth. They're just a bunch of insignificant pictures, but apparently, the intruder looking at them thought otherwise.

"_The Dragonborn's Sacrifice_… huh, I never knew Lythandas was there." He paused, holding up a finger to stop me. "On the open market, it would fetch fifteen hundred gold easily. Double, if you sold it to a collector. If only you weren't so lazy."

"Well, hello to you too, sir," I said. "They're ready?"

"Yes," he stated, "and they've been ready for the past three days. When are you planning to take the _hwa_—"

"All right, let's not get ahead of ourselves," I reminded my visitor. "At the moment, a few hundred Nord soldiers are pushing north from the Silverfish, up the Yellow Road. Our part's coming up soon." I removed a bag from a chest and handed it to him. "Your pay, sir. The advance for your second mission is included. You ready for it?"

"Make it quick. Who could you want that dead?" The Redguard asked as he opened the bag and inspected the gems and gold within.

"At this point, half the damned world," I half-joked, "but even I can't afford that; I'm not the government. No, this isn't a Brotherhood or Tong accounting or anything; not exclusively, at least. I just need the goods hidden at Cedrian after we secure it. Is that possible?"

He scoffed. "Anything's possible, but are you planning on taking your sweet time again?"

"For a man in your profession, sir, you sure are damned impatient these days." I remarked.

"And for an idol of youths, you certainly curse a lot," he retorted. "Do I have to spell it out for you? The longer this conflict drags on, the more money it costs me. Gold doesn't grow on trees!"

Good old Jon, a very short-tempered and unpredictable man in these chaotic times. Not that a trader and economist like him doesn't have reason to be mad, but he's no ordinary man;

he's a major financier of this war.

He's also an associate of Wulf and Madame Nin, two of my other backers. But that's a different story.

"You're moving too slow," he warned. "Either we start seeing results, or—"

"Or what, Jon?" I interrupted. "You'll repossess my Realm? Please. Believe me, I've tried to sell; ain't no one stupid enough to buy. Madness moves at its own pace, not yours. Be patient. Your investment will pay off."

* * *

I warped out of Frostcrag Spire and into the charred ruins of the Bruma Mages Guild. Why, I didn't know; maybe it's that I'm too stupid to label the teleporters. The place still hasn't been rebuilt, what with the reconstruction efforts in Kvatch and the Imperial City taking precedence. Almost immediately, I remembered why I rarely teleport here voluntarily.

A wooden beam fell and struck me on the back of my armored head. Wait, that was a staff—oh, not good!

"You are a fool for coming here, Sheogorath," my attacker warned. The voice was deep and heavily distorted, yet the local accent made it somehow familiar. "This war doesn't concern you. Abandon your delusions and go home while I still allow it."

I rolled, kicked his legs out from under him, and hit him with a paralysis spell. I'd learned from fighting Mannimarco to neutralize all threats before engaging in unnecessary conversation. It's still not second nature for me, but like I said, I'm learning.

Once the situation wasn't so dangerous, I let out the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. It was time to loot this fool's armor; there was no need to kill him myself when the freezing cold would do my job for me. I tried to pry his helmet off… but fell back from a powerful electric shock as my hands touched the ebony.

The electrified armor, the distinctive emblems, the familiar voice… now I recognized him! So much about him had changed, but underneath it all, my attacker was none other than the vigilante responsible for all the opium smuggler killings in the Highlands—the one I'd personally evaluated and hired two years ago. I scoffed, shook my head, and left in disgust. There was no loyalty these days!

Guards had surrounded the structure, probably drawn by the scuffle. I jerked a thumb at the door as I strode past them. "In there, guys," I said, not bothering to explain further.

* * *

I ran to the Imperial City like I'd done some major skooma. I think I even ran Shadowmere off the Red Ring as she was taking one of the greenhorns to a job. It was time to fetch Gooey and the mages.

Finding them was easy. Gooey had a match against a challenger, and my students loved to watch the Blues' young champion take down people twice his size with his bare hands. Simple deduction placed them all in the Arena.

Or, at least, he _was_ in the Arena.

I watched in disbelief as my apprentices filed out with heavy sacks of money in their hands. Damn. He'd won already.

As usual, I didn't find Gooey; he found me. Kid would've made a great scout, but putting food on the table comes first.

"Get down!" he whispered as he dragged me behind some crates. "If my fans see you, they'll know I'm nearby." A chameleoned finger pointed at my students. "You see the Orc and the Khajiit in the green robes? They're the 'adoring' fans I've been telling you about."

Say what?

"You mean Rughash and his thugs?" I asked. "About that… they're my students."

He gave me a weird look. "Eh?"

I tried to refresh his memory. "The Arcane University?" No luck. "The other fools on our team?"

"Oh." Then the words sank in. "Oh, _HELL_, no!"

My thoughts exactly, boy.

* * *

"Let's skip the introductions for now, shall we?" I asked the gathering. "I mean, all of you know Gooey here, and while he may not know you by name, you can believe Gooey knows you all."

We'd gone to the former Umbacano Manor for our meeting. Sure, it was a Thieves Guild safehouse and drop-off point for goods that "fell off the back of a cart," but officially, it was the residence of a successful Bosmer teenager.

Yes, Gooey is also a member of the Thieves Guild. I would've been insane to let his talent for camouflage go to waste. Wait…

"Let's get down to business," I continued. "You may not have heard, but there's a force of Nords massed on the east bank of the Niben and making its way north. In total, it's about company strength, but they're well-equipped—we're talking ebony and above gear here. Also, they have Daedric support—Golden Saints and Dark Seducers."

A gloved hand—paw—of my Khajiit apprentice shot up. "This one has questions."

"Go ahead," I said.

"What is company strength?" he asked.

Oops. I'd forgotten that Tamriel uses a different table of organization. Call it two hundred personnel… and a cohort is around four-eighty…

"A little less than half a cohort," I replied. "No more than two hundred men, even if you count the Daedra."

"Two hundred of them against us?" Gooey crooked a brow at me. "I appreciate your faith in us, but please, count me out. Even I'm not stupid enough to fight that many Nords at the same the time."

"Fight them?" I asked. "I think there's been a misunderstanding here. Those are our _allies_. We're going to _rendezvous_ with them, not fight them."

"Oh, good," Rughash sighed in relief. "For a minute there, I thought you'd gone crazy. Nords, you say? They'll get the job done."

"You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?" I continued. "Those Aedra-heads we're up against? There are an estimated nine _thousand_ of them. Most likely more. And they're all coming to pay 'Saint Martinus' a visit. The good news is they're making individual pilgrimages here—most are still scattered across Tamriel."

"Oh, joy." Gooey buried his head in his palms. "More cliff racers masquerading as people. You weren't kidding about the partisan warfare. Shall I open the liquor cabinets now?"

"Yeah, I think it would be best if you did," I muttered.


	7. Look to the North

It had been ages since I'd organized a caravan myself. Normally, that job was left to officers, and it took "dereliction of duty" levels of incompetence within the chain of command before someone as lowly as myself had to take charge. That never happened, thankfully. What happened instead was I wanted extra money and agreed to run supplies to Vvardenfell… during the Blight. One of the biggest mistakes of my career, yet also a blessing in disguise.

"Seems everything's in order," I announced. "We'll meet up in Cropsford. Now remember, if anyone asks, you're a group of couriers delivering alchemical and agricultural implements there. Manifest's with Rughash. Safe travels."

"You're not coming with us?" Gooey asked. "Don't tell me you're leaving me with these people."

"Sorry, buddy," I apologized, "but unless the Nords are informed, we might end up with a massive case of fratricide on our hands pretty damned fast. And we don't want that, do we?"

* * *

"Halt!" a voice demanded. "Who goes there? Friendly or enemy?"

I couldn't see the sentries, but I knew a minimum of five arrows were aimed at me: one on each side, one in front, and two behind. It was one of the new Mazken tactics developed in response to zealot and heretic raids on Dementic towns.

"I'm no one," I responded.

Here came part two. "Advance and be recognized!"

I took a few steps forward and stopped as the voice ordered me to hold again. "Crystal?" it asked.

"Dust," I answered.

"Pass," it ordered.

By the Nine, how I hated the Isles' new challenge-response protocols! It may have saved the Saints and Seducers a lot of people, but for every hundred Daedra lives it saved, a mortal needlessly lost his or her life due to some slip-up in the system. Daedra respawn; mortals do not.

I walked into the encampment with the Mazken silently escorting me. From the look in her eyes, she had a message for me. From the massive scroll that suddenly appeared in her hands, I knew it would be a long one.

"Lord Sheogorath, Autkendo Dylora's compliments." She unrolled the scroll and began reading the outline. "We've successfully taken Cadlew Chapel, Fort Aurus—"

I raised a hand to interrupt her. "Let's forget the point by point and condense it some more, shall we? I have to run back and forth between you folks and your reinforcements, and you're just the first stop. And don't call me 'Lord Sheogorath' 'round here, okay? This ain't the Isles, and even if it were, we fought in the Greymarch together. You've earned the right to be informal."

"Very well, General." She skimmed through the dispatch. "All objectives taken and held. Main body is garrisoned just across the river at Fort Cedrian. Casualties are six wounded, one killed in action. Supply status is unknown."

"The casualties," I inquired, "what were the circumstances?"

"The Golden Saint forces encountered unexpected resistance from necromancers barricaded within the chapel. One of the Nord men revealed his squad's position too early when he brushed against a thistle and botched a flanking maneuver. He was executed afterwards for his error." She shrugged. "Males. Always whining."

I mentally punched myself for not expecting this. "I'm going to take a scientific wild-ass guess here, Kiskedrig. Tell me if I'm right or wrong." A pause. "Staada did what I always threatened to do and crucified Hroar Glory-Hound."

"Close enough," she said. "She also ripped out his eyes and replaced them with another pair of orbs."

"Ouch," I winced. "I knew I shouldn't have let her take lessons from Verenim. And those orbs happened to come from another part of his anatomy?"

"No, General. Staada used white fire salt charges." She winced as well.

Well, that was even worse. The red fire salts I'm used to tend to ignite from friction, and they're considered _safe_. White salts? The stuff of nightmares—they ignite at _room temperature_. Their burning particles stick to skin, a whiff of its smoke can cause major breathing problems, and eating a small spoonful of it can torch internal organs. Even the variant of Enemies Explode I created for my jewelry, Massive Heartburn, doesn't do as much damage.

Yes, I named it Massive Heartburn. What am I, in the naming business?

"It could have been worse," she reminded me, as if she'd read my mind. Wait, maybe she's psychic and can read minds and—no, no… she's much older than you are; of course she's seen worse.

I decided to tempt fate. "Yeah? How so?"

"It could've happened to a lady or a Mazken," she replied.

Oh, for the love of—

* * *

Cedrian was just across the Corbolo, and while it had been easily secured as a supply dump and a base, neither of the duchesses were anywhere in sight. It seemed, despite explicitly telling the force to _not_ kill everything they came across, an earlier order of killing or being killed superseded it. Staada was using that as an excuse to wander off and shed some more blood. Naturally, Dylora followed so she wouldn't lose face.

That's the official reason, of course. I know the true reason: Both of them are claustrophobic. Can't say I blame them; being a helpless prisoner of war while a desperate battle for your home rages all around you is one of the worst forms of torture. And I should know; I spent a night as a guest in the infamous caged inn known as the County Bruma jail for punching that bigot Senarel… and that extortionist Logellus… and Cecia. I also clubbed a Khajiit named J'Ghasta to death, but no one cares about that one.

Anyway, I was at Fort Cedrian to inform the rather small garrison of the incoming friendlies from the north and to wait for Jon's special delivery, no matter how long it took. I ended up staying for several hours before the Redguard finally arrived with the goods—disassembled, I should add. All I wanted was our equipment delivered cheap, fast, and in good condition, but the Gods have sick senses of humor.

The walk back to Cropsford was short in distance, but I was physically and mentally weary from trying—and failing—to put the secret weapons together. The recording stone was slowly sapping my strength, but there was no way to deactivate it. Leaving the damned thing behind would've been suicide; who knows what damage might result from the equivalent of an unfinished, unencrypted Elder Scroll falling into the wrong hands?

Gooey, Rughash, and the mages wouldn't be too difficult to find; Cropsford may be a boomtown, but it still has only one inn secretly owned and operated by a Thieves Guild fence. Of course, it wasn't set up to be a way station for thieves; I had this place built to block off a popular smugglers' trail. The smugglers countered by establishing the Greenmote Road, and with no further use for the inn, I turned it over to an old Thieves Guild and Legion buddy from Morrowind.

Business was… slow, though there'd evidently been a spike in patronage earlier that day. The exhausted landlady sat behind the counter of her deserted establishment, resting her head on her forearms.

"Wow," I remarked, "looks like you finally found someone stupid enough to drink all the two-gold wine around here. So, how ya doing, Boss?"

She mumbled something unintelligible. It was probably best that I didn't try to translate it.

"Well, that's… unfortunate," I said. "Look, Boss, you know the caravaneers who came through earlier? I'm in charge of them. I was wondering if—"

"You could get a room?" she sleepily finished. "No vacancies, Sarge. Sorry."

Aw, damn it all.

* * *

One of the first things you learn in the military is how to sleep. Sure, it sounds stupid, but it's absolutely vital for survival. Anyone can sleep in a bed, but there ain't no beds in the field. Even worn-out cots are luxuries.

I've slept in places that make the late Valtieri's stone slab seem fit for an emperor, but then, I've also fallen asleep standing up because I would've drowned otherwise. A mudcrab-infested strip of beach wouldn't be too bad.

Only… I wouldn't get to sleep, not tonight. There were people milling about. _Armed_ people. Only a trio, but their shimmering silhouettes sure didn't look friendly. And they were headed in my direction. Here we go again!

"I take it you're here to kill me," I said, stating the obvious. "How convenient. I'm here to kill you. Shall we begin?"

As they drew their weapons and advanced, I clasped my hands behind my back and stood my ground. With a few discreet motions, I slipped over twenty rings onto my fingers.

I let the first attacker stab me with her pike. It hurt—a lot—but as soon as she removed it, it completely healed. Within a minute, there would be no scar left where I'd been wounded, no evidence save for the blood on her weapon.

Too bad I wouldn't be able to say the same about her. She screamed in utter anguish as seven times the pain she'd inflicted upon me was returned to her. Seconds later, she vomited blood and tissue as the rings' auxiliary enchantments liquefied her internal organs. Massive Heartburn was apparently a bit excessive, but it was either that or waste a bunch of grand soul gems and gold on inferior effects.

"Heh," I chuckled, repeating a boast I'd heard from Jayred once, "is that all you got? I need an honor guard into Oblivion, and you're it, fetchers!"

One little statement managed to break their will. Pathetic. "The Champion's gone mad, Sigismund!" one of the others cried. "We have to run!"

Sigismund, the ghostly figure farthest from me, grabbed his comrade and ran him through with a longsword. "If you will not serve in combat, you shall serve as slaughterfish food!"

That voice! "You again," I grumbled. "Sigismund, is it? Shouldn't you be freezing your ass off in a jail cell up north?"

"I posted bail," he said simply.

Oh, brilliant idea, Tamriel! Everyone's guilty until proven rich—how can that possibly go wrong!

"Why are you doing this?" I demanded. "You don't even worship the Nine!"

"The Nine Divines have nothing to do with this," he countered. "The Brides of Saint Martinus have been _very_ generous in their payments. I warned you to escape with your life while those fanatics purged Cyrodiil of their enemies. Now, it is too late. It pains me to raise a hand against my best client, but you leave me no choice."

Mercenaries. Scum of the earth, murderers and rapists and torturers all. Animals who knew no loyalty but to septims and their baser instincts. Damn them! Damn them all!

I gritted my teeth as I felt my temper rise. "Then let's settle this right now, mercenary dog!"

"Do you truly believe I would be so stupid?" He gestured at the two corpses. "Why do you think I had the little bitch stab you? So many decades of the Legion's training and experience wasted on you. For shame,Sergeant." He produced a scroll and disappeared in a flash of light. "We shall meet again soon. Until then, look to the north."

I was left on the beach with two corpses, a bloodied weapon, and damaged clothing. Considering people got executed for less, tonight was a good night.


End file.
